The Adventure of the Disappearing Girl
by freddystolemymonkey
Summary: My first story, written in traditianal Doyle style. Holmes and Watson are set upon the case of a girl who has gone missing shortly after her arrival in London. But when the girl can't be found Holmes is forced to dig a little deeper... I suck at summaries
1. Chapter 1

Ok, this is my new story. It is (hopefully) going to be the first in series of Sherlock Holmes stories, all concerning an OC character. In this one I have tried to write as close to Watson's style as possible, but any others I write will probably be from a 3rd person perspective.

NOTE: Reviews and constructive critisism are appreciated.

I might come back and re-upload this chapter once I have a beta to help me tidy it up. I also want to change the title, because I don't actually like it. Any suggestions?

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Chapter 1 - Introductions

Of the numerous and varied cases that have been submitted to me and my friend, Sherlock Holmes, probably the strangest and most interesting was the case of Emma Roxburgh.

It started, for us at least, on a cold and blustery October morning in '95, just after breakfast. Holmes and I were comfortably ensconced in our living room at Baker Street, he perusing a letter, and I writing down the details of one of our most recent triumphs. I had not seen Holmes for some time, due to my work at the practice, so I was not surprised to hear the rattle of carriage wheels outside and to discover that he had already embarked upon a new case.

"Nothing too dramatic, Watson," he said, raising his eyes from the letter to look in the direction of the noise. "A simple yet intriguing affair. Normally I would leave a case such as this to Scotland Yard, but given the distance my client has traveled to consult me, I resolved to at least have a look."

I nodded, about to ask for particulars, but was cut short by a knock at the door. An extraordinary woman was then shown into the room and seated herself on our couch. She was short, although her large hairstyle added a full three inches to her height, and stout like a bulldog. Her face was heavy and her expression was one that suggested a firm resolve and toughness that I was sure couldn't be found anywhere else in England. This strength of spirit was further expressed in her hard brown eyes and thin lips, these last permanently set in a frown. I found that I had to physically stop myself from shrinking back in my seat, so powerful was the aura of disapproval that surrounded her. She greeted Holmes curtly and, after the proper introductions, gripped my hand in a firm handshake.

"I received your letter, Mrs Roxburgh," said Holmes, never one to beat about the bush. "And I must say there doesn't seem to be much I can do for you."

"Oh, we have heard of your powers even as far away as Africa, Mr Holmes. I can think of no one better to help me." she said, nodding her head firmly, daring us to argue with her. Holmes' only recourse was to smile and ask her to tell her story.

"Before I begin I should inform you, Mr Holmes, that I have never set foot in England before and neither has my daughter. I have lived my whole life in Cape Town and am not familiar with your British ways. However I do know how to spot a charlatan and, mark my words, I will not tolerate being made a fool of." The lady increased her frown and stared hard at us. My friend merely nodded and said,

"I assure you, Mrs. Roxburgh, I have no intention of taking advantage of you."

She nodded, seemingly placated, and began.

"As I stipulated in my letter, sir, my daughter has gone missing. She was traveling over here, aboard _The Lueewkop_, to live with her aunt, my husband's sister and, hopefully, find a husband. When she failed to arrive at her aunt's house the police were notified and the captain of the ship questioned. According to him the girl had disembarked safely and been put in a cab with all her luggage, yet no such cab arrived at the house."

"Ah, so I assume the police are still looking for her?" I asked. I was given a sharp glance and a short reply,

"The police say they are looking but so far have turned up nothing." She turned back to Holmes and waited for him to say something. He had assumed an expression of polite concern but I could see his interest was already waning.

"I see. Was no maid sent with your daughter? No personal servant or chaperone?"

"We didn't think it necessary. The captain is a good friend of my husbands and was charged with looking after her on the passage over. And as for a maid, the girl that used to tend to my daughter handed in her notice a week before the voyage. It was determined that a new one would be employed for her when she arrived in London."

"What was the condition of her home life like?" said he. "Forgive my seeming impertinance, but it is necessary that i have a full account of the girl's character and circumstances if I am to find her."

"Well, my husband is a retired army doctor, though of course now he just treats regular patients." I noticed Holmes' eyes flick to me before going back to our guest. "We are reasonably well off, on account of a large inheritance I received from my parents, both English colonials from respectable families. Besides Emma, my daughter that is, I have two sons. Both have left home and entered into professions of their own. Klaus, the eldest, is training to be a barrister and Albert is considering entering the navy. It was intended that Emma should marry a doctor so he could take over the practice once my husband retires."

"And lastly, Mrs Roxburgh, can you think of any possible reason why your daughter would run away?" Immediately the lady bristled.

"I will tell you as I told the police. My daughter was kidnapped and did not run away!"

"I see," Holmes said again, rising from his chair by the fire. "Then I am afraid I cannot help you, Lady Roxburgh. The police have far more man-power, time and resources than I. I can do nothing but urge you to place your trust in them."

"The police! I have not traveled all this way just to talk to the police, Mr Holmes!" She rose too and stared at him incredulously. Suddenly it seemed as if all the energy and vigor had drained from her, leaving a tired, middle-aged woman who had lost a daughter, instead of the fire-breathing dragoness that had entered an hour before.

"I'm afraid there is nothing more I can do," Holmes said at last, ushering her out. He held the door open for a maid that had come to set the lunch things and returned to his seat. There was a pause between us during which I stared pointedly at him.

"You should take the case," I said finally. It was not often that I gave my opinion so bluntly, so his look of surprise was not exactly unwarranted.

"My dear Watson, why ever should I? I see no point in wasting my time on a case that has nothing of interest in it whatsoever. A motive at least would've been nice."

"It will keep you busy," said I. This was only half of the reason I wanted him to take on this case. I had noticed him looking with increasing longing at the drawer containing his supply of heroin and morphne, and wished him to have something to distract him from the habit. I watched his face carefully and suppressed my joy when it took on the look of dogged determination I recognised so well.

"Very well, Watson. If it will keep you happy," he conceded. My moment of victory was spoiled a moment after by a muffled thud and a whispered exclamation of pain. Peering over the sofa, which was placed in front of the dinner table, Holmes and I saw the maid crouched between the legs of the table attempting to retrieve a butter knife.

"Sorry, sir," she said, standing and brushing dust off her skirt. It occurred to me that I had never seen her before. She was remarkably pretty, although a foot shorter than Holmes and I, with auburn hair piled in a loose bun atop her head and the neat, hourglass figure so prized by women nowadays. Her large brown eyes were currently directed at the floor, and a large red welt was already visible on her forehead where she had presumably bumped it on the roof of the table.

"The new maid," Holmes explained. "No, don't bother with bringing a new one up. I see you've brought two." This last was to the maid who had been about to fetch a clean knife. Her face flushed pink and she muttered an embarrassed apology before backing out the door.

"Poor girl," I remarked as we sat down to eat. "Has she been here long?"

"Undoubtably so, Watson," Holmes said as he reached for a bread roll. "I can only come to that conclusion as she's managed to get the knives and forks the wrong way round."

We turned our conversation then towards other matters, such as my paper on Post-Surgical Patient Anomalies that I was considering for publication, and Holmes' latest foray into the world of chemistry.

Directly after lunch Holmes instructed me to send a telegram to the address Lady Roxburgh had given in her letter, informing her of Holmes' change of mind and asking her to call on us at seven tomorrow morning. He, meanwhile, disappeared into his room to concoct a new alias, one that he was going to test down at the docks where Emma Roxburgh had last been seen.

"I just want to make absolutely sure that the girl did not go of her own accord," was all he said before closing the door behind him.

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Well, that was chapter 1.

I hope you liked it, and remember, I am open to any suggestions for a new title and ways in which I can make my story better.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2, e Voila!!

I can't spell or speak French to save myself, so that was probably wrong haha. I know there isn't a lot of action so far, but bear with me and I'll try to shift this thing along. There's a lot of backstory in this one so I'm sorry if it's bit slow but, trust me, there is a point to all this! So, yes, read on! 'Tally ho' and all that! (One of the view advantages of being British is being allowed to say that!)

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**Chapter 2 – All is not as it seems**

The next day I arrived to find Holmes in his living room at Baker Street where he was chatting amiably to a young man of about twenty-seven years of age. I glanced up at the clock. It was a quarter past eight. I had overslept, yet there was no sign of Mrs Roxburgh.

The moment I entered the room and made myself known, the boy stood and out his hand eagerly, as if he already knew me.

"Watson, this is Klaus Roxburgh, brother to Emma Roxburgh. Seems you and his father attended university together," Holmes remarked as the young man shook my hand enthusiastically.

The youth was taller than his mother and painfully thin, although this looked natural enough judging by the healthy glow on his cheeks and apparent strength. His brown hair had been plastered onto his head with water but even still I could tell it was only a matter of hours until it sprang up in what I imagined to be an unruly mess. A tiny mustache adorned his upper lip and an elegant suit adorned his body.

"Mother couldn't make it this morning," said he as he let go of my hand and sat down. "She was so overcome when she heard you were going to help find Emma..." He let his voice trail off as Holmes and I tried to imagine the lady who had presented herself yesterday being 'overcome' in any sense of the word. It was a difficult task, to say the least.

"I'm afraid I don't recall knowing a Roxburgh at university," I said, taking the seat opposite him. "Perhaps you are thinking of another John Watson?"

"What about Roxberg? My father changed his name to Roxburgh on account of his father's...On account of his father."

I struggled not to share a curious glance with Holmes before replying.

"As a matter of fact I do remember a Friedrich Roxberg. I always thought he intended to go back to Germany."

However, before I could set to reminiscing about my old acquaintance, Holmes spoke up.

"And now to business, gentlemen."

Both Klaus Roxberg, or Roxburgh as I should call him, and I looked up and sat back in our seats, once more aware of why we were there.

"I'm immensely grateful to you for agreeing to help find Emma, Mr Holmes. If there's anything I can do you have only to ask."

"Thank you, Mr Roxburgh. In fact there are several things I would like to ask you. What was your sister's frame of mind before she left Cape Town? Did she seem perturbed at all?"

Roxburgh seemed surprised, for he had leaned forward as soon as Holmes had acknowledged his pledge, but he answered nonetheless,

"I don't think so. She was a little upset about Julia, her maid, leaving but other than that she didn't seem perturbed at all. Maybe a little annoyed, but..." He trailed off, as if not wishing to say any more. But Holmes was ready with his next queston.

"Why was she annoyed?"

"Well...What you must understand, gentlemen, is that it was very hard for Emma, being the only girl. Father treated her just like another boy, but mother kept insisting that she be more ladylike. I'm not saying she didn't need to act with more decorum at times...but mother always was rather hard on her when it came to those sorts of things."

At this point the young man gave us a sort of helpless grimace, as if to communicate his confusion over the workings female mind. This was appreciated by Holmes, who gave a small smile in return before motioning him to continue.

"To be fair she had her fair share of proposals but did not appear to have any interest in that sort of direction. So I can well understand the decision to send her to England, only I don't think Emma saw it quite that way. Only last year father stopped trying to marry her off to every single German fellow that came through Cape Town. She seemed to think that now it was the English's turn. I have to admit the whole thing was getting kind of ridiculous. I mean, no man likes to see his sister become an old maid, but really, I do think they could have handled it better."

Holmes smiled wryly at the gentleman and steepled his fingers before asking his next question.

"Did your sister know anyone in London? Besides your aunt, I mean."

"No, none that I knew of. We have some cousins up north but I've never heard her speak of anyone and she's certainly never written to anyone in London. That's why I'm so worried. She's just turned twenty-one and has never been outside South Africa, so lord knows what sort of people could take advantage of her..."

As he spoke Roxburgh pulled out a wrinkled photograph from his breast pocket and handed it to Holmes. I leaned over and inspected it for myself. The photograph was of three children, the eldest boy looked to be no more than twelve years old, seated on a velvet settee. A young girl of about eight years of age sat between the two boys, her face creased in a broad grin and her small figure smothered in a white frock that took up half the seat. Even though the girl would undoubtedly look different at twenty-one, her eyes did seem to be vaguely familiar to me. Who knows, Holmes or I might have passed her on the street yesterday or even this morning!

"I didn't think to bring any other picture of her," he explained as we studied the picture. "When I heard she was missing I just grabbed the first one I could lay my hands on before accompanying Mother out here..."

Holmes observed the picture for a second or two before handing it back to the young man. I could tell that he found Klaus Roxburgh's replies far more helpful than the boy's mother's had been. His eyes burned with a thinly-veiled energy that only appeared when he was working on a case of significant interest to him.

"Well, I think that is all for now, Mr Roxburgh," Holmes said, rising from his chair. The boy rose as well and shook our hands before turning to go. On being asked if he would stay for breakfast he merely replied that he had to get back to his hotel and if we needed any help whatsoever he would be only too glad to assist.

After the young man had left, Holmes lit his pipe and smoked meditatively for a few minutes, digesting all the new information that had been presented to us that morning. Eventually he broke the silence.

"Unusual family, eh, Watson?"

"Quite, Holmes."

"Any idea about why the family name was changed?"

I frowned slightly, unsure as to why my friend would choose to ponder on this seemingly irrelevant detail, instead of the myriad of other questions that needed answering. Nevertheless, I replied,

"I'm afraid I do, Holmes. In his last year of university poor Roxberg received a letter telling him his father had been hung for murder in Bloemfontein. Several people gave him a rather hard time of it, and then when he was posted to South Africa..."

I did not finish my sentence and Holmes only nodded and relapsed into silence again. When it looked like he wasn't going to say anything more I sat down at the typewriter and started to type up the unfortunate disaster of Dahlquist, the taxidermist, whose dramatic death had been the culmination of a rather lengthy investigation by Holmes and myself.

Suddenly I recalled Holmes's evening excursion down to the docks yesterday night. I had completely forgotten to ask about it in the excitement of Klaus Roxburgh's interview, but now I resolved to ask about it now, as he didn't seem inclined to tell me himself.

Oh, that," said he. "Oh it went very well. I journeyed down to the docks, garbed in the attire of a young sailor. At every tavern or inn I came to I inquired as to where I might find the captain of _The Lueewkop_, the ship you doubtlessly remember Mrs Roxburgh naming as the ship her daughter was traveling on. Eventually, when I had begun to despair, I found him at The Lion's Head Inn drowning conveniently in gin. An hour later I left him to his drinking, armed with the firm knowledge that this was not a kidnapping and that the police are desperate for a conviction, however lacking in motive it may be. I eventually arrived home around one o'clock to find that you had gone to sleep and that Mrs Hudson has taken to hiding the spare key in her pocket, as apposed to under the door mat."

At this last my friend looked a little disgruntled and I stared at him, exasperated at his coolness.

"And now what do you propose we do? There are a million and one places the girl could be hiding and so far we haven't the faintest inkling where she is!"

"I propose," said he, choosing his words with care. "that tomorrow we visit Emma Roxburgh's aunt and try to glean any details from her."

After this brief exchange Holmes withdrew completely into his thoughts and his pipe, and I let him alone. At first glance this case had seemed simple, but I was slowly learning that sometimes even simple mysteries can be the hardest.

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Well, that was chapter 2! What did you think?

Many thanks go to my beta, VHunter07, for her time and advice, not to menton the URL to a site with all the Holmes stories! Thanks also to Sherlock Holmes, who has taken to living in my head and telling me how he wants to be written. The little egotistical victorian also demands credit for all of his lines. So there.

Disclaimer: Ok, I actually forgot to put one on chapter 1 (something I intend to go back and fix) so I'll put one here now. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Watson, or any other canon charactors that appear in this story. They belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. I own all original charactors, however unsplendid they may be. End of.

Read, flame, review, whatever!


	3. Chapter 3

Well here I am again (FINALLY!) Sorry for the long time in updating. Exams have started and I'm barely getting enough sleep as it is so this story kind of took a back seat in my mind for a while. I'l try to be quicker with the next chapter but don't expect it anytime too soon. Thank you to anyone who has actually stuck with this story for so long.

As for this chapter, it's a bit short and was writtten in sporadic bursts usually at 2a.m. or thereabouts, si if it's confusing, just bear with me because it'll all come together soon if you haven't figured it out already (my beta assures me everything is still a mystery though )

Disclaimer: Anything created or owned by Arthur Conan Doyle does not nor ever has belonged to me. Probably never will either. All OCs are mine though.

Anywho...read on!

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Chapter 3 – Blue Silk! 

The next day I was unable to go with Holmes on his trip to interview Mrs Anna Haig, the aunt of Emma Roxburgh, due to several important cases at my practice. However, I was able to catch up with him and hear the whole story over dinner that very night.

I arrived around nine to find him seated in his armchair and smoking upon his cherry-wood pipe. He seemed quite cheerful and markedly different from the brooding and pensive man I had left last night. He greeted me jovially and thanked Mrs Hudson effusively when she brought us our supper. I had been worried that I would find him in one of his moods, so felt it safe to ask him to recount his venture to me.

Well," said he upon my asking him, "I requested the address from our friend, Klaus Roxburgh, and took a cab to the home of Mrs Haig. It is a beautiful house on the outskirts of London, not far from the late Charles Augustus Milverton's old residence, that she shares with her husband Colonel Bartholomew Haig. If you care to glance in my index, Watson, you will find a record of his numerous decorations and services in Africa during the Boer Wars.

'I had arranged to call upon them at four-thirty and arrived promptly at three, letting myself in through a back window-"

"Holmes!" I ejaculated, shocked at what I felt to be an unnecessary risk. I could never quite get used to Holmes's loose relationship with the law. On more than one occasion he and I had stepped outside those boundaries that we, from childhood, had been taught to obey and it always made me more than a little uncomfortable. It never seemed to affect Holmes, however, who had more than once remarked that he would make a highly effective criminal if he so chose.

"Come now, Watson!" Holmes said, looking at me with an air of mild exasperation, "You yourself remarked that they were an 'unusual' family! Besides, I found out more by prowling around than if I had interviewed the dear woman fifty times!"

All of this he said in his usual calm way, though tinged with amusement at what I'm sure he must have considered my unnecessary prudishness. Nevertheless I let him continue.

"I made my way to the library where I discovered that the Colonel is an old cavalry man, educated at Sandhurst, with a remarkable interest in archeology judging by his bookshelves – a pastime that is avidly shared by his wife. Both are exceedingly neat as I observed when I glanced into the room that would have been Miss Roxburgh's. Not an article out of place as if she were still due to arrive that day. While in her room I found the girl's luggage in a corner, precisely labeled and inventoried, the travelling labels still attached to the handles. Confident that I would not be disturbed, as the maids had all been confined to the kitchen until my arrival, I proceeded to look through all of Miss Roxburgh's belongings."

Here Holmes leaned forward and I, who had always despaired of my friend showing any physical interest towards a woman, began to feel rather alarmed that he was taking _too_ physical an interest.

His eyes were ablaze and I could tell the cogs of his mind were already whirring and working tirelessly to produce some new plan or miraculous revelation. However, what he said next hardly seemed to justify this excitement;

"Blue silk, Watson!" said he, his voice low and excited. "The girl likes blue silk! I found several articles made of the stuff!" He then produced from his waistcoat pocket a blue silk scarf trimmed with lace, and proceeded to weave it through his pale fingers as he spoke.

"Holmes, I'm afraid I don't quite-"

But it was no use. All he would say was "Blue silk!" over and over again until I eventually calmed him by asking him what happened next. I made no comment about the scarf that had obviously been stolen from the girl's luggage. Holmes' expression clouded into a look of disappointed petulance that I had spoilt his fun, but he continued nonetheless in a bored, indolent voice.

"I left the room as I found it and slipped out of a scullery window, walking around to the front garden just in time to greet the owners as they walked up the garden path. Colonel and Mrs Haig are exactly as you would expect: a gruff, respectable man in his mid-forties, and his aging belle of a wife. A short interview followed in which I gleaned nothing new through a tangled mess of confusion, lies and the girl's badly kept personal secrets."

Here Holmes picked up a book that had been lying face-down on the table beside him and tossed it lightly to me. I turned the book over in my hand and was more than a little shocked, dear reader, to find that the book was an untranslated copy of de Sade's monstrous novel 'The Crimes of Love'.

"It is annotated," said he, noting my shock. "It seems Emma Roxburgh was quite the amateur psychologist, and not a sadist as possession of such a book may suggest. It is at once obvious that a girl who has read and understood such material is not the kind of person who would go gallivanting off on some ill-thought-out escape from her family, as I have so far been inclined to believe. No, Watson, she has found somewhere safe to hide herself by now. And I say we leave her to it."

All of this was said with the utmost solemnity and calmness and yet I could not help being surprised.

"Give up the case, Holmes? But why? Her family has come all the way from _Africa_ to ensure her safety and you are just going to refuse to find her because she doesn't want to be found?" I regret to say that my words were rather harsher than I meant them to be, yet however true all of these points were none equaled my dismay that Holmes was actually choosing to give up without any effort whatsoever. Though, however true they were, Holmes would not budge.

"If she does not wish to be found then who are we to stop her? Besides, we will have to double our efforts if we want a hope of success this late in the case." His voice was casual and off-hand, as if the case was already gone from his mind. I still must have looked inconsolable, for Holmes added in a softer tone, "It took you three years to find me, or rather for me to come back to you, and not for want of trying."

But I was at this moment thoroughly irritated with Holmes and stood up to leave. It was not often that I argued with Holmes, but I had been counting on this case to keep him busy and clear his mind of narcotics. Before I left, Holmes told me that he would be following up another case in Norfolk and would be gone for a week, so if he was needed I should have Mrs Hudson send my letters on.

So at least he wouldn't be completely without something to distract and divert his mind from what he termed his "numerous little weaknesses". But something still nagged at my mind as I left Baker Street. It was so completely out of character for Holmes to just drop a case without seeing it through to the end, not to mention if there was a grieving family involved. And I would not be able to go to Norfolk and supervise him, as my work prevented me from leaving London for more than a day at a time. I suppose I would just have to wait out the week and see what happened.

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AN: Regarding the Marquis de Sade's book (for those people who were confused and not as strange as I am) All you need to know is that owning this book would have been very shocking in 1895, because of it's sadistic sexual content. Psychologists now use these books as textbook examples of sadism, although in Holmes's time psychology was still a relatively young concept, with "sciences" such as phrenology and physiognamy (recognising criminal behaviour in people by feeling for lumps and bumps on their head) being more popular. These would be the methods used by the police force, and therefore Holmes would be sceptical of them and more open to the psycological side of things. That's my reasoning, anyway. 

Well? Was it worth the wait? Does anyone actually care what happens next? Will I get any reviews or shall I just plod on with the story alone? Only time and the next review will tell...

P.S. And don't worry, Holmes will be back.


	4. Chapter 4

I know, it's a miracle! I acually finished chapter 4! So far my least favourite chapter as it was so difficult to write... Please let me know what you think of it, as I am still twiddling my thumbs as to whether I should rewrite it or not. Reviews and constructive criticism is appreciated as always :D I'm also wondering whether to make the 5th and final chapter of this story a christmas present to you all or not, if I can even get it finished in that time. What do you think?

Anyway, enough stalling, do some reading!

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Chapter 4 - Absence 

By eight o' clock next morning I had resolved to call at Baker Street before my practice opened and try to reason with Holmes and persuade him to carry on the Emma Roxburgh case on behalf of my old friend, Friedrich Roxburgh. Holmes was a late riser, and would probably catch an afternoon train to Norfolk, so I arrived at Baker Street at nine o' clock, confident that he would be having his breakfast at his normal time and would not have left. I let myself in at the front door and was removing my hat and coat in the hallway just as Mrs Hudson appeared at the kitchen door.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson," she said with a note of surprise in her voice. "Mr Holmes has gone up to Norfolk for the week, so I'm afraid he isn't in."

Polite inquiry was evident in her voice but I was too dismayed to directly answer her unasked questions. In searching for an explanation for my friends' unprecedented early departure I happened to glance at the woman's hand, which was held at a strange angle. On closer inspection I saw that it was bleeding and she was holding her hand so that the blood would not stain my coat, which she has proceeded to hang upon a hook in the hallway.

"May I dress that for you, Mrs Hudson?" I asked, already removing bandages and disinfectant from my Gladstone bag. We moved into the kitchen where I lay my things down on the cleanest surface possible, an area of wooden table that wasn't covered in vegetables for supper, and dressed the cut that had apparently come from a slippery knife in the sink. I told her that I had hoped to speak to Holmes before he left and Mrs Hudson seemed surprised that I should wish to do so.

"He left last night, sir. Late after you'd left. He said it was best as he had to 'set some wheels in motion', whatever that means. I suppose it was just as well, though, as there was a bit of a commotion shortly after he left. Some drunk got it into his head to come by at one in the morning to ask to speak to Mr Sherlock Holmes. Except he saw fit to yell it from the street, and not ring the bell like everyone else. I swear, that man gives me trouble even when he isn't living here!"

I smiled at this last comment, knowing full well that Mrs Hudson had cried her eyes out every day of the first year she had thought Holmes was dead. I didn't choose to remind her of this, however, but merely asked what had been done with the fellow.

"Well he'd already woken up half of the street, so we, that is Julia and I, decided to bring him in to stop him waking up the other half. Only once we got him in here he was stone cold and snoring enough to bring the house down. He was a bit rough, you understand, but he didn't seem the villainous sort, so we decided to keep him here until he was sober and let him go his own way. That was the idea, anyway. He's sober and refuses to leave until he's seen Mr Holmes. Says he'll do odd-jobs and things until he gets here."

"But why not call the police and have them remove him?" I asked. I had already half risen to throw the man out, but Mrs Hudson merely shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"I'm afraid I have rather gotten used to Mr Holmes' queer friends visiting at strange hours. I'd rather this fellow stayed and made himself useful, rather than cost Mr Holmes next months rent."

At that moment we heard laughter through the open window and I turned in my seat find it's source as Mrs Hudson rose to investigate.

I should probably mention at this time that behind the Baker Street buildings there is a small courtyard still in existence from the last century, when the area was less fashionable and frequented by members of the working class in search of work at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. Since then this space was still used by the servants of Baker Street residents as a place to hang up laundry and store firewood. At the time I looked out of the scullery window the courtyard was being used to dry bed sheets in the icy autumnal breeze that was currently sweeping through London, and it was through these sheets thats I glimpsed the source of the laughter.

A tall fellow was leaning against a pile of firewood talking to a bright-eyed girl dressed in a maid's pinafore and cap. I did not recall her as the maid I had seen on the day the Roxburgh case began until Mrs Hudson excused herself and bustled her way over to the pair. It was clear from my position at the kitchen window that she was reprimanding them both, for the girl's slumped shoulders and blushing cheeks gave away her embarrassment. The rogue merely stood there with an ironic smile on his face, an insolence that was barely hidden by a layer of dirt and a pair of overgrown and untrimmed whiskers.

Mrs Hudson finished her lecture and returned to the kitchen whereupon I told her that I had to return to my surgery, if I could not speak to Holmes. As I was gathering my things I glanced through the window again and saw the pair still talking, although the girl was half turned away from the man, as if straining to return to the Baker Street kitchen. I remember at this time feeling some annoyance at the man reached out and touched her shoulder in a curiously intimate fashion and the girl made no move to remove it. I exited the kitchen just as she turned and began walking back towards the kitchen doorway. While in the hallway I reiterated my view that the police should be notified, but Mrs Hudson was firm in her decision to let him stay, so I left it at that and returned to my practice.

By now I had resolved to write to Holmes and tell him my thoughts on the matter. My letter to him was promptly dispatched that afternoon and I waited with baited breath for his reply, which I was sure must come before his return on the Monday of next week. Nothing came though, and I was obliged to return empty handed from Baker Street every time I called expecting one. It was on one of these visits that the startling conclusion to this unusual case took place.

By Sunday morning I had again received no reply from Holmes and indeed I was so engrossed in a pamphlet I was considering publishing on the nature and misuse of certain narcotics (my friendship with Holmes giving me more than enough experience with this) that I had almost completely forgotten about the Roxburgh case. I was sharply reminded of it, however, when along with my scrambled eggs and toast I received a telegram from the man himself!

_"ARRANGE MEETING WITH ROXBURGHS AT BAKER ST NOON MONDAY STOP WAIT FOR ME STOP HOLMES" _

I was immediately intrigued by what this telegram meant and hurriedly arranged for a message to be sent to the Roxburgh's at their hotel, asking them to be in Holmes' rooms at twelve the next day. The errand boy returned with a message confirming the meeting. Now all that remained was to wait for Holmes' return and the end of this mystery.

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Yeah, so how was it for you? Sorry if it was confusing for you but I wil try and make the ending wrth it. But remember, I don't have a clue what others think of this story so any review is helpful, even if it's just a 5/10 thing or something 

And I've been thinking fo maybe adding a preview of the next story in this series sometime after Christmas. Yes? No? Who cares?Whatever your view is I'd like to know.

Thanks again for sticking with this story!

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	5. Chapter 5

Well, here is chapter 5! I apologize for not getting this up in the time I said I would, but I spent the holidays with no internet and was unable to finish this chapter:( I also apologize for it being so late in the month already, but exams are coming thick and fast now so I probably won't be able to update for a while unless I get a big break sometime.

You will be glad (or horrified) by the way to hear that this is not the last chapter, as I thought it would be! There is still another chapter to come and I'm still toying with the idea of a preview of the sequel. This chapter just ran on too long and a lot of things I wasn't planning happened and before I knew it it was several pages long. Well, enjoy this chapter and I'm sorry it's so confusing but trust me, I _will _have all the loose ends firmly tied up in the next chapter so do not despair! Thank you once again to all of the people who have read and reviewed this story, whether positive or negative.

Other than that I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

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Chapter 5 – Disappearing Act

I was not certain at what time on the Monday morning Holmes was to return from Norfolk, but was prepared to comply with his cryptic instructions in order to discover the reality behind the missing girl's disappearance. On the Monday morning Holmes had stipulated in his telegram I was ready and waiting in our apartments for the arrival of the Roxburghs.

Mrs Roxburgh arrived promptly at twelve, her son Klaus in tow, and I did my best to make them feel welcome as we waited for Holmes to arrive. Mrs Hudson had prepared tea and offered various other refreshments while I attempted to engage the lady and her son in polite conversation. However, any hope of light chit-chat was extinguished by the woman's obvious restlessness, and in the end I ceased any further attempt on that front.

Half past twelve came and went and still no sign of Holmes. Although he had never been noted for his punctuality, in truth I was beginning to sweat as it drew closer to one in the afternoon and the door to our apartments remained shut. I was casting my mind around for something else to say, as I confess my long association with Holmes' brusque and direct manner had caused my faculties for conversation to become rusted, when the door finally opened.

My heart leapt when I saw my friends lean figure enter the room and bow curtly to Mrs Roxburgh and her son. The lady started and immediately opened her mouth to enquire:

"Where is she, Mr Holmes? Where is Emma?" to which Holmes merely responded by calling down the stairs for Mrs Hudson to send the maid up with more tea.

It was only after he had sat down in his chair by the fire that he addressed our guests directly. With one leg crossed elegantly over the other and a calm, contemplative look on his face I had no doubt that he was preparing some new feats of showmanship with which he could dazzle us as he revealed the conclusion to his investigation.

"Mrs Roxburgh," said he, as he languidly lit a cigarette. "What do you intend to do with Miss Roxburgh once she is found?"

I can only imagine that the look of surprise on Mrs Roxburgh's face mirrored my own at this improper question, yet she replied,

"Why, I would send her home of course, Mr Holmes. I can hardly expect her to act sensibly after this debacle."

"And you agree with this course of action, Mr Roxburgh?" Holmes' eyes fixed on Klaus Roxburgh's face with such an unwavering intensity that the boy began to squirm a little. I wondered inwardly what Holmes was up to, even as I removed my notebook from my pocket, ready to record whatever events might unfold.

"Of course he does, Mr Holmes," Mrs Roxburgh said impatiently. "She has been unforgivably troublesome and does not deserve to get married. A nice convent in Port Elizabeth will do nicely."

Holmes gave no sign that he had heard her and remained quiet as the sound of footsteps proceeded up the hall. I heard him mutter, "We shall see." a second before the door opened and he rose to greet Mrs Hudson as she walked in the room carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers for tea.

I will never forget as long as I live the look of astonishment that crossed Holmes' face as he saw her. In a halting and disbelieving voice I heard him ask,

"Mrs Hudson...where is Julia?"

"Julia?" said she, setting the tray down. "I don't know, Mr Holmes."

"But I asked that she bring the tea up."

"The girl said she was unable to. Something about coal for the man in 221a." Here the lady looked at Holmes quizzically. "Please don't tell me that it matters now who brings the tea up, Mr Holmes..."

"Of course not, Mrs Hudson. Thank you." My friend seemed to spring back into his usual, impassive self and save for one last quizzical look in his direction, Mrs Hudson left satisfied that nothing was amiss.

As soon as the door closed Holmes rushed to his desk and began wrenching the drawers open, apparently searching for something. When he did not find it he burst out into a fit of raucous laughter. Mrs Roxburgh and her son were so startled that they jumped clean out of their seats. I myself was more than a little shaken and immediately asked him if he was quite mad.

"Mad, Watson? Oh no, not mad, simply ecstatic." He laughed some more and then leant his shaking frame upon the windowsill and looked out into the street below. A light seemed to burn in his eyes as he surveyed Baker street and despite what he said I was inclined to think that his senses had indeed taken leave of him. Having calmed down somewhat, he turned and said something very strange to Mrs Roxburgh,

"Mrs Roxburgh, you should be very proud of your daughter. She is a veritable Major Zamora and like the contortionist has managed to squeeze and slide her way passed my trap-"

"Mr Holmes, I'm not sure I quite follow-"

"And I regret to inform you that your daughter is forever lost to you. Use whichever explanation suits you: she has died, she has been kidnapped, she has joined the circus, et cetera."

"Mr Holmes, what are you talking about?!" the lady had stood up and was now gazing at Holmes in a confused panic. Holmes' eyes were strangely merciless as he answered her in the patient manner of one addressing an inferior:

"I am sorry, Mrs Roxburgh. But I am unable to help in the matter of your missing daughter. I can only advise that you go back to South Africa and enjoy the two children you have left. I also regret that the issue of my fee still applies in the event that my investigations have been unsuccessful."

There was silence in the room. Time seemed to have slowed as Mrs Roxburgh stared at Holmes and the woman was transfixed to the spot by shock. Eventually she seemed to come back to herself somewhat.

"I see. Thank you for your troubles, Mr Holmes. Tell me...Is there really no hope?"

"No."

"I see...Come, Klaus."

A moment later the room was empty except for myself and Holmes. I took a moment to gather my thoughts before speaking.

"That was vile, Holmes. I have never seen such a tasteless, unfeeling display of...vulgarity." I could barely get the words out I was so furious. "Did you see her face? His face? You just treated their loss like it was...a..a show! And what the devil was all of that with the maid?" All of a sudden a light came on in my mind as I made the connection that Holmes must have made weeks ago. "Was that her? How did you know? Why did you not tell them? I cannot-"

"Excuse me, Watson," Holmes said softly, and I noticed that he was massaging his temples and looking drained for the first time since our investigation had begun. "I need to rest a while. I promise I will tell you later, but for now I need peace and quiet. Will you allow me that? Please?"

I said nothing, I was still too angry, as I watched him retreat into his room and close the door. Suddenly it was impossible for me to stay in the apartment and I had to get out. So I collected my hat and coat and went for a brisk walk right across Regent's Park and all the way to the University College before turning back.

It was dark when I returned to 221b and fast approaching nine o' clock. I let myself into our apartments fully prepared to force the truth out of Holmes if he was there. Yet all I found was an empty syringe.

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Ooooh! Dun dun DUUUN! Haha I was assured by my beta reader (the ever-brilliant and tireless VHunter07 who I would not be able to do this without) that this ending would add Gasp!factor.I hope it has and I hope it has left you wanting more. Or at least not being bored to tears...Review and tell me which! Then I shall know how to finish this story on a suitably dramatic note...:D


	6. Chapter 6

Well, here I am with the last chapter of my Sherlock Holmes sotry. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (although hopefully without the same amount of hair-pulling and staring at the screen at unreasonable hours) I don't have any solid plans for when a sequal shall appear, although I'm sure I'll get more than a few ideas from my trip to London this weekend (yay!) I'll be the one lurking around 21 Baker Street, if any of you guys live near there. Thanks once again to my marvellous beta VHunter07. If you liked this, then I urge you to go check out her page and her stories for a good read!

Ok, enough of this banter, on with the story!

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Chapter 6 - Denoument

The next morning I rose to find Holmes already awake and busying himself at the breakfast table. I was immediately unsure on how I should go about breaching the subject of yesterdays events, and indeed, how to bridge the gap that seemed to have temporarily come between us. It seemed however that as far as Holmes was concerned, those events need never have happened and were as is often said 'water under the bridge'.

"Watson! You have risen and not a moment too soon, my dear fellow. Sit down and have a few mouthfuls of something before my client arrives."

"Client?" I was considerably taken aback by the sudden appearance of a fresh case, so soon after our previous one had ended. However, in the long run I supposed it was preferable that he be kept continually busy in order to prevent a relapse into one of his unfortunate bouts of depression.

"Yes, Watson. She is coming here merely to iron out a few details as to her situation. Ah! And if that is not her entering our front door at this very minute! Sit down, old boy, and have some coffee. I want you to record every detail of what promises to be a very enthralling tale indeed."

So saying Holmes ushered me to my usual chair, making sure that I was equipped with both notebook and pen, before carefully stationing himself near the door. Within a few short seconds light footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs and this sound was quickly followed by several knocks at the door. Swiftly Holmes moved to open it and admit his client.

I jumped to my feet as soon as I saw who our visitor was. Auburn hair, brown eyes and an hourglass figure...

"This is your client?" I gaped. I was dimly aware at the time that the degree of my surprise might have been a little stronger than Holmes had anticipated, however this did not show on his face which remained as impassive and unreadable as a statue.

"Yes, Watson, this is my client. Please sit down, Miss Roxburgh. Can we interest you in some breakfast?" Holmes motioned her into the seat usually reserved for clients and he sat in his chair by the fire, while I tried to calm my mind and ignore my persistent confusion.

The lady sat and for the first time I was able to properly study her countenance. From my position I could now clearly discern the family resemblance she bore to both her mother and her brother, although it was evident that the reason I had not remarked on this similarity before was because most of her features were given over to her father's heredity. It had been many years since I had seen my old friend, but his jawline and dark brown, almost black, eyes were clearly replicated in his daughter. Yes, my theory of the previous evening had been correct: the maid who had called herself Julia was without a doubt a relation of the Roxburghs. But how had Holmes come to this conclusion before I, he who never gave a woman so much as a second glance unless she was directly linked to a case of his (and until a few days ago 'Julia' the maid had been a member of this large category) while I had not?

Having politely declined an invitation to breakfast, the young lady did not immediately volunteer her story, but instead remarked:

"So, Mr Holmes, I would be much intrigued to know how you engineered this whole...investigation. I am quite in awe of your powers."

Holmes did not smile in response to this flattery, but I could clearly discern that he was pleased, as he steepled his fingers and replied,

"It was really rather simple, my dear lady. But please, I would prefer to hear the story from your own point of view."

I readied my notebook and pen as Miss Roxburgh began her account.

"I was raised in what I suppose you might call a rather hedonistic manner. In a land that is still being created and formed less attention is given to domestic matters, so I was often left to my own devices as a child and rarely set apart from my brothers, unlike an English girl would be. And my father has always been...strange. Something to do with my grandfather's death."

I immediately recalled this tiny detail that Klaus Roxburgh had told us, about the grandfather who had been hanged for murder. Miss Roxburgh however, chose not to shed any light on this matter and merely continued:

"The day I turned seventeen marked the end of this era as my mother began to introduce me to various friends of hers, as a prospective wife to their sons. My father's preference naturally fell to any young men of German ancestry like himself, and my mother was ruthlessly particular as which boys would be selected for an introduction. This left a rather small group for me to work through, and it was easy to whittle it down to only one or two that I would have to endure. Naturally, the shock of such a sudden change left me cold to many if not all of those young men. Eventually the decision was made to send me to England to live with my aunt and uncle, who would introduce me to London society. This was my chance to escape a life which I found intolerable and, although the thought makes me laugh now, to have an adventure. The night that we docked in London I climbed into a cab bound for my aunts house, the address of which I had already acquired. On the way there I packed several changes of clothes and various essentials into a bag before exiting the cab but sending my luggage on.

I confess to being rather an admirer of yours, Mr Holmes, and have often read of your exploits, some of which have been related to us in the Cape Town papers. Unsure of what to do with myself now that I was free and being somewhat curious as to the whereabouts of 21 Baker Street, I asked directions and was very soon upon your doorstep. However, before I could leave and continue my aimless wanderings, the door was opened by the woman I now know as Mrs Hudson. On being asked as to my purpose I replied that I was in need of work and of lodging for the night and wondering whether she could direct me to an inn of some sort. "We are in need of a new maid, if you're needing work," said she and I thought 'Why not?' The opportunity to sample some other kind of life from the one that I was used to thrilled me, especially as that life now seemed in danger of being replaced by a life of dreary matrimony.

I would not be completely truthful if I told you that life below stairs suits me and within a day I was realising just how ill-thought out my plan had been. I was unused to the long hours and hard work of a working class job, and Mrs Hudson threatened to sack me at least once a week. I was in a city that I did not know, where I knew nobody and nobody knew me. In my mind this had been a simple exercise, a hobby that I could give up at once if it did not suit me, yet with each passing day I realised that I had been tricked by my own pride. The idea of striking out on my own, of some form of independence, that had so thrilled me at first now revealed itself to be little more than an unwillingness to give in to my parents' demands.

It was as I was contemplating my own stupidity some time later that I heard the sounds of a carriage pull up in the street outside. Absently I peered through the door to see who it was that Mrs Hudson was greeting at the front door. My heart almost jumped up into my mouth as I saw who it was. I did not fully recover until I was sure I had heard my mother enter 21b. I was certain that she knew I was missing and had determined to employ you to find me, Mr Holmes, and in order to verify my suspicions I entered your room on the pretext of bringing your lunch a few minutes early. It seems that it only takes a few weeks hard work can make a daughter unrecognisable to her own mother, as she did not seem to recognise me when I passed her in the corridor. As I set the lunch things out I was so busy eavesdropping on your conversation and my hands were trembling so much that I dropped a knife underneath the table. On hearing that you would agree to take the case I panicked and bumped my head on the table. I was temporarily afraid that my blunder might have brought me to your notice, but fortunately it did not. That night I repacked my bag in the event that I should have to make a quick escape, as the idea of being caught in such a menial job would cause my mother to ridicule me for the rest of my life, an experience I would rather do without.

However, all was relatively quiet the day after my mother's visit. I saw my brother enter your room and briefly debated revealing myself to him, as he has often understood me and taken my side against my parents. In the end I resolved to keep my secret a little longer and to await further developments. And for a time there did not seem to be any! I was a little perturbed when I heard that you had taken a new case, but when I learned that it was taking him to Norfolk I became confident that I would not be discovered for some time yet. The arrival of a certain drunken rambler at our doorstep was a minor incident that I did not give much thought to, so busy was I with trying to make myself at home in London.

I had taken to saving up my wages and spending them at one of the many small theatres in the centre of London on my days off, when the gentleman, who introduced himself as Bartholomew Pitt, offered to escort me. I learned that he would be staying with us until he could have a word with you, Mr Holmes, although how he got Mrs Hudson to agree to such an arrangement I do not know."

"Ah, as to Mr Pitt," Holmes interrupted. "I'm afraid I really have to apologize for him."

"That is quite alright, Mr Holmes. I have to admit that I had figured it out some time before. When I again thought about it I realised that since you had had no other client apart from my mother then you could not possibly be in Norfolk and that therefore you must still be in London. Mrs Hudson also happened to mention that you have a habit of running around London in various disguises..."

Miss Roxburgh's words seemed sincere enough on the surface, but I couldn't fail to detect a faint hardening behind the eyes that made me certain that Holmes had once again gone a bit too far in his charade of the previous week. The little tableau that I had witnessed bore out this theory and I determined to have words with Holmes once our guest had left. As for Holmes, I noticed that there was also a certain tightness in his face when he heard that the young lady had recognized him when even I had not. Naturally Holmes, with his detestably large ego, would see it as an insult that one of his disguises had not been foolproof. Oblivious to this, Miss Roxburgh concluded her narrative:

"You are aware of the rest of the details, I'm sure, but for Mr Watson's benefit I shall summarise. Things carried on in this vein for some time, with experiencing new sights and sounds, oblivious to the detective at my side. It was when Mr Holmes arrived and Mr Pitt abruptly left that I suddenly made the connection between the two. So early the next morning during my rounds to top up the fires, I took the opportunity to wake Mr Holmes up and ask him to tell my family that I could not be found or that I was dead or whatever he chose. In return I promised to come back for this interview. I realise that this may seem rather melodramatic to you, but after this little incident I have no doubt that it would be better to remain a scullery maid than go home. My parents are not the most forgiving of people, sometimes remarkably so, and I would prefer to remain in England. Besides, I find that I have rather gotten to like things here, although I never will understand how you can bear this awful weather."

After concluding her story Miss Roxburgh stayed for a little while longer only to answer a few questions on my part and to tell us that she would attempt a reconciliation with her aunt, with whom she would be lodging with, and perhaps with her mother in a few months. She did not specify what she would be doing with herself in that time, but I fancy that we have not seen the last of Miss Roxburgh, judging by Holmes' remarks after the door had closed behind her:

"Bluffing. She must have been bluffing! I have used that disguise countless times and nobody could guess that it was me."

"She seems to be a perceptive young lady. Perhaps she is good at recognizing faces?"

Holmes merely harrumphed and began to work on one of his chemistry experiments while I sat down to fully record what had just happened. And there you have it, dear reader. The entire story of the disappearing girl, bar a few minor details. The blue silk that had so enamoured Holmes after his visit to the Haigs had turned out to be Miss Roxburgh's undoing, as Holmes had deliberately taken her past a stall selling silk scarves. Upon asking her to pick one that he might buy for her she immediately leapt to claim the blue one. Holmes' suspicions were further validated by her hatred of going out when the weather became any lower than 20º, due to her upbringing in a warm country, and by numerous small signs which he later described to me.

"White skin is prized in hot countries as much as in any other," said he, "and she had been very lucky in inheriting a pale complexion. However, there was still a faint pigmentation to her skin and I also noticed faint freckles on her wrists and nose, evidently the result of exposure to extreme sun in the past. In addition, her accent was still discernible although I must admit that she is a fair mimic when it comes to accents."

With this faint praise Holmes abandoned the topic and appeared to forget it. I, however, am not so sure that he had.

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"Ta-da!" as the magicians say. Did you think this was a satisfactory ending, or were you somewhat disappointed? Do you think there should be a sequal? Do I need to get more sleep from now on? Don't bother answering that last one, I know the answer is yes.

Read, review, flame, whatever!

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